


Busted Knees

by Seagoatink



Series: Obscene Obscure Omnipotent [2]
Category: Iron Man - All Media Types, Marvel
Genre: Disability, Disabled Character, Genderfluid Character, Self Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-07
Updated: 2017-04-03
Packaged: 2018-09-30 09:43:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10160450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seagoatink/pseuds/Seagoatink
Summary: “OK, DJ Busta Nut, this is what you do,” she replied to one of his first questions. The response was immediate. He laughed at the reporter, who in all reality asked a very stupid question, at least in her opinion.Olive felt a hand on her shoulder. Her eyes widened as she looked up to see who it was only to find a face hidden by a mask. Her last text to Tony was a series of letters and words placed nonsensically and slewn about the message. She threw her phone across the marble, sure her secondary phone was still in her clutch or maybe somewhere in her dress.





	1. A Bit of Action

For Olive, it was a big night. Mr. Stark would be reading his first speech written by her at a formal event. Forgoing heels, she settled for a pair of flats, even though she planned to spend the night in her wheelchair anyway. Walking around for even 20 minutes was difficult, but to spend a whole night actively walking or standing around talking to people would cause more pain than she could handle.

When she arrived at the event hall, she was early. Of course, that was her plan. She would rather appear to be a reporter than a colleague and given she hitched a ride with a well known journalist only helped sell her position. Being associated with Tony was not a problem, but Olive did not want to complicate matters beyond necessary.

As she waited patiently with other reporters around the museum that was hosting the event, Olive ran her hands over her hair which fell just over her shoulders. Given that all but the top of her head was shaved, the fact that her hair was so long conveniently hid her undercut of sorts. The flashing of her phone burst through the fabric of the clutch that rested in her lap.

It was a small thing, navy blue to match her dress with a sterling silver mouth and clamp. She opened it and fished out one of her phones. Tony had sent her a message. “Prepare for trouble,” it read.

Olive sighed. “Make it double,” she whispered to herself. One of the reporters was standing above her. Suddenly she felt relief that she had renamed Tony to “Boss” instead of “Iron Man” or some dead giveaway like that. “Can I help you?” She asked staring up at the reporter.

“I just thought you were cute, kinda doubted you were here for work considering you-” he cut himself off.

Olive glared up at him. “You wanna continue that thought? What’s your name?” She huffed, half tempted to play “It’s a Miracle” and hop out of her wheelchair just to point her finger condescendingly at him.

“Jackson-”

“Right, Johnson, leave me alone,” she grumbled. Instead of waiting for his response, she turned and wheeled herself away to one of the elevators where she knew she could get some actual privacy. “I had a feeling,” she responded to Tony’s text as the elevator music chirped around her.

Her phone went off again as the elevator dinged and the doors opened. She entered the gallery and hung a left. The hallways were well lit and guards were lined every 30 feet along the walls. One probably existed in each exhibit as well to make sure nothing was stolen or broken as well as for the general safely of the museum guests.

“I mean big,” read the text.

“Golly, I don’t even have a weapon or training. Let me suddenly become an expert in martial arts!” Olive deleted the text. It was hard keeping the boundary of Boss and friend a clean line. She began to type up a new response as more people entered the main gallery floor from the stair well. “What should I do?”

“Send me a selfie.”

“Weird, but OK.” replied Olive before snapping a selfie. She was sure to show off the navy blue dress she was wearing that had a velvet texture. She was not sure if it really was velvet, but it felt like it at least. As soon as her phone produced a clear picture she sent it. “That’s going on my blog later,” Olive said to herself with a grin.

The lighting inside the museum at night was phenomenal. She made a mental note to come on one of her off days and spend as much time as she could manage at the place. More than a year had passed since she reviewed art pieces, and rolling around the museum made her realize how much she missed it.

“We’re almost here, might want to follow the huddled masses,” Tony texted, referring to the reporters and journalists who had filled the gallery moments ago.

“Gotcha, Boss,” Olive replied in the elevator. At the back of her head she wondered if she was being too extra for the very, extra billionaire.

“Don’t call me boss,” he texted back at one point, to which Olive did not reply.

The night was uneventful, but she documented it with her phone’s camera nonetheless. Everyone there to record and respond to his speech gathered in the central atrium of the museum where a podium was set up on a raised stage. Olive stayed off to the side, so no one would notice she was helping him reply during the Q&A that would follow his words. 

“OK, DJ Busta Nut, this is what you do,” she replied to one of his first questions. The response was immediate. He laughed at the reporter, who in all reality asked a very stupid question, at least in her opinion.

Olive felt a hand on her shoulder. Her eyes widened as she looked up to see who it was only to find a face hidden by a mask. Her last text to Tony was a series of letters and words placed nonsensically and slewn about the message. She threw her phone across the marble, sure her secondary phone was still in her clutch or maybe somewhere in her dress.

The sound of skittering attracted the attention of a few reporters, but Olive was already almost wheeled out of the room. Surely she would have screamed but her voice was stuck in her throat, and signing “LET ME GO” was not going to help her in the slightest.

Finally having had enough of speeding through the museum faster than anyone had the right to, Olive raised her hands to the air and grabbed for her assailant’s collar. She threw him into the door in front of them, shattering the glass as she did so. All the while, the momentum from the movement dragged her from the wheelchair.

Her knees hit the marble flooring with a crack, familiar in feeling to her morning stretches. Still, the feeling was not pleasant and she knew her skin would be its own work of art in less than a week. There were gunshots elsewhere, telling Olive she was on her own for a while. Taking advantage of her low position on the floor, she took a moment to tie up her dress so she would not trip over it later on.

Then she searched her fallen assailant for a gun or something that would help her. She felt her hip protest at her posture, tightening and cramping up. Olive groaned in complaint, but continued her search. There was a pistol of some sort, or at least she assumed it was some sort of pistol, considering she was not at all familiar with hand held guns. Growing up she had only fired a weapon once or twice. 

This was either the worst decision she had ever made or the absolute best. She pushed her wire-frame glasses up her nose before bolting back to the atrium. Olive locked eyes with one of the reporters and waited for them to signal to the other hostages that they might be saved. The young woman threw her voice to the other side of the hall, feigning a scream and then a call for back-up.

Inwardly, she chuckled. “Mom always said copying voices from cartoons would never do any good,” she thought to herself as she hauled ass across the floor while firing at the assailants. It was not the best plan by a long shot, but it kept the attackers distracted from the escaping reporters. 

Her shots were shit and only two hit, and those were by pure luck. The power behind the gun was enough to fuck up her wrists for the rest of the week, but adrenaline hid the pain for the time being. Olive ducked into one of the hallways and threw the gun to the ground. It was out of bullets.

She kicked off her flats, deciding she would have better grip and less chance of slipping on the floors with her bare feet. At long last, Olive slipped into a room with heavy, solid doors. Again she fell to her knees, not even waiting to see if the place was clear or not. Her palms lay flat on the floor, soaking up the comforting cold to chill her high temperature.

The adrenaline was beginning to leave her blood system, she knew because her windpipes felt like they were swelling shut. She fell to her forearms as she began to hyperventilate and heave, until finally bile fell from her mouth and onto the floor. The process repeated itself as Olive’s mind felt like fire. Her whole body felt like fire.

Someone placed a hand on her back. “Are you alright?”

Spit dribbled from her mouth as she raised her head to look up at the person dumb enough to ask such a question. “Do I look alright?” Olive quipped hoarsely. Her hair fell to the side, finally out of her vision, allowing her to see Captain America kneeling beside her. At one of the doors was Rhodey, who she had already seen in Stark Tower once or twice in passing.

“No, not really,” the blond admitted.

Still fighting for her breath, Olive continued to huff. “The Hell is going on?” Asked the woman.

“You cleared out most of the hostages,” Captain America replied.

Olive rolled her eyes and sat back on her calves. “Who the fuck tried to steal me away like a greedy king in a faery tale?” She clarified. 

“Hydra,” said Steve.

“Oh… Grandpa’s gonna be really upset if I don’t call him after this…” Olive mumbled as she shook her head. “This isn’t good…” She scooted away from the bile on the floor that was beginning to ooze into the cracks of the large marble tiles. After wiping her mouth to remove excess slobber she analyzed the room, which was large and fairly empty. 

Steve watched her as she tried to stand with the help of one of the empty displays nearby. “Are you going to be alright?” He asked her, his voice full of concern and worry.

“You said most of the hostages are out?” Olive asked, her eyebrows furrowed at the center of her face as if she were formulating a plan of her own. 

Everyone’s favorite patriotic figure nodded curtly. “Yeah, there’s just you,” he answered.

Behind him Rhodey fired a shot down the hallway, making sure to keep their escape routes clear so they would not be overwhelmed later on.

Olive sighed and went to sit on the large, ottoman-like benches at the center of the room. “Then I’ll wait here till a fucking ambulance comes. I can’t run anymore, my asthma’s not gonna calm down at this point.”

Again the blond nodded. “I know what that’s like,” he replied. Then he returned his attention to help Rhodey.


	2. Part of the Team

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You realize I’m disabled. I can’t run, I have asthma.” For a moment she hesitated. Her hands found solace in petting Zelda instead. “Look, I know I fired a gun, but I’m a pacifist, Tony,” Olive admitted and finally gave into the urge to suck in her lip and bite.
> 
> “You know I’m an arms dealer. Right?” Tony replied almost immediately to dish out the truth if at all ironic. “For the U.S. military? The largest military force in the U.N. -I’ll remind you those are all our allies too.”

The paramedics put her on oxygen for a while and gave Olive one of the uncomfortable, but still warm, trauma blankets as she rode out the aftershocks of panic attacks. Her ears were still ringing, and it took her almost half an hour to remember she fired a gun. To keep in her warmth, she undid the knot in her dress only to realize the night had tattered it. As the fabric fell back around her legs, she felt sharp, burning pain and remembered the one bullet hole and the several scrapes from the glass door she broke. Her knees were sore, but that was nothing new, so she put the thought to the side.

Somehow she managed to get back to Stark Tower with her wheelchair, though she was fairly certain someone drove her home. She was in no condition to cart herself several blocks back to the place in the middle of Manhattan. 

Olive entered the tower with an expression of obvious exhaustion. Yet Tony yelled, “There’s our hero of the hour!”

She glared daggers at him before yawning wide. “I’m going to eat a bunch of ice cream bars and astral project into the seventh dimension,” deadpanned Olive as she avoided him and headed straight for the elevator to the 14th floor. 

“But you’re lactose intolerant?” Tony said, obviously confused.

“Look, that’s between me and Jesus. And Jesus doesn’t know shit, so I’m fine!” Retorted Olive.

The billionaire realized his new writer was far beyond reason. At best her comprehension process was that of a drunkard at 4 a.m. “Why don’t you get changed and we can get some take-out?” Tony said. He had already invited over a slew of people, not quite famous, but they were his friends. It seemed silly to say, but he wanted to show off his newest addition to Stark Industries.

“I’m a slut for food, I’ve been found. Someone tell Jesus my late night prayer is gonna have to wait another seven centuries,” Olive grumbled as she hit the button to call the elevator. “Can I bring Bean?” She asked.

Tony shrugged, not sure if she was comprehending what she was saying. “Whatever your heart desires, I guess,” he said with a shrug. It did not matter to him what she did. He was not planning on leaving the place anyway, so he figured if Olive brought down DJ Busta Nut nothing bad would come of it.

When Olive rejoined Tony, she was quick to notice the small group of people who were also in the room enjoying themselves for the night. She wheeled in with a blanket wrapped around her legs and Zelda in her lap. Over the back of her wheelchair was another blanket. She had on a sleeveless top with a collar that clung to her neck. Her dark hair was pulled up into a tight ponytail that bobbed and swayed as she pushed herself along. The most notable difference about her was her lack of lip gloss which she was wearing at the museum.

Zelda left her lap and bounded onto the coffee table, desperate for attention. 

The first person to address Olive was Janet, who was spritely to say the least. Olive had met her once when she went to Stark Industries for a meeting with Pepper and some other people Tony worked with. Generally, the young woman worked from Stark Tower to avoid confusion and travel mix ups. 

“I heard what happened at the museum, are you doing alright?” Janet wondered. She was small and rested on the arm of the wheelchair, knowing Olive did not really mind.

The younger woman nodded in response. “Yeah, I just need to drink some water actually,” she replied as she wheeled toward the bar area of the room with Janet in tow for the free ride. “The EMT squad was pretty nice, but they wouldn’t let me leave till I stopped having panic attacks,” Olive added as she opened the fridge door and grabbed herself some water and a bag of carrots. 

She decided she was happy that most of the lounging area was ramped as she was able to barrel into the main sitting area with ease. Zelda hopped back into her lap, showing interest in sniffing Janet.   
She pet the downward-pointing, black triangle of the cat’s nose. Around Zelda’s black nose was upward-pointing, white triangle. The design effectively being a tri-force from the Zelda video games that gave the cat her name. 

“I’m glad to have more women on the team!” Janet exclaimed. She had the cat’s face in her arms and soon was sitting on Zelda’s head to scratch behind her ears.

Olive’s mouth hung agape. “I… Well, I didn’t think I was on the team, to be completely honest,” she admitted before shoving a carrot into her mouth.

Janet seemed to be at a loss for words as well. Still, she continued to scratch Zelda’s ears.

“Is there something I should talk to Tony about?” Olive questioned, now concerned that this gathering was going to turn into something of an embarrassment.

Speaking of the devil, he walked up to the gaggle of women, if Zelda was to be included, and sat down on a nearby chair. “Feeling better, kid?” Tony asked with an award winning grin.

“I’m gonna go socialize,” Janet said before flying off, much to Zelda’s displeasure.

Olive wheeled herself closer so she sat beside her boss. “Yeah, uh… Janet said she was happy to have me on the team? I’m just confused I guess…” Her uneasiness was mixing in with the effects of an exhausting night. Even in the dim lighting of the gathering, it was easy to see the dark circles under her eyes. 

Tony was watching her closely. She hoped maybe he felt he had miscalculated how well the night had actually gone. But he had brought his hero friends in to have a good time and meet her, so Olive safely assumed she was wrong. “You are part of the team,” he said. His hand turned like he was going to put a hand on her shoulder, but he stopped himself. The wheelchair probably reminded him that she was disabled and in a lot of pain.

The woman sighed. She fought the urge to suck her lip in between her teeth and nibble. The fight was a success, she won. “You realize I’m disabled. I can’t run, I have asthma.” For a moment she hesitated. Her hands found solace in petting Zelda instead. “Look, I know I fired a gun, but I’m a pacifist, Tony,” Olive admitted and finally gave into the urge to suck in her lip and bite.

“You know I’m an arms dealer. Right?” Tony replied almost immediately to dish out the truth if at all ironic. “For the U.S. military? The largest military force in the U.N. -I’ll remind you those are all our allies too.”

“So you think I’d’ve preferred continue to not eat, never leaving my fucking room, and constantly listening to my brother threaten to throw me on the street because I had a bag of popcorn?” Olive asked, her voice low as she tried to contain her bubbling anger. Part of her wondered if Tony truly understood the life he helped her leave. “I can justify your actions in writing, and I can justify your business as well, but… I gotta sleep on some thoughts, I guess…”

Tony leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. “You’d be doing more good than harm, Oliver,” he assured Olive.

“Did you go reading one of my blog posts or something?” The younger of the two asked, her eyebrows furrowing together yet again.

She had not asked him to call her Oliver or Olivia, just Olive. It was a nice in-between kind of name. Her friends she trusted to go back and forth between the names along with pronouns, but she made a point not to tell Tony for a while. Olive was not sure if she trusted him to be nice about it or not. Even now, she was not sure of his intent.

“I caught a conversation or two, did some reading.” He shrugged, trying to play it off as no big deal. “I get it if you don’t want to join the team of whatever you want to call us. But outside of that decision, you’re my friend,” Tony said. “You can rely on me.”

“Thanks,” Olive replied. She could feel Zelda’s shedding fur stick to her palms and realized rivers were forming in her hands. Anxiety was one Hell of a miracle worker, Olive supposed as the cat leapt from her lap for the attention of someone much less sweaty. “I was wondering… What exactly happened at the museum?”

His eyes fell to his folded hands. Given Steve had told her it was Hydra, the writer knew the whole thing was a basket of snakes, and not the fun kind that were rubber and stuck to stuff when you flung them around. It was a venomous basket of snakes that some five-year-old brat shook up for funsies. “The first thing that happened was someone grabbed _you_. That’s not good news, Oliver,” said Tony. He was keeping his voice low so only she could hear him.

A bullet had tunneled its way through her leg. She was well aware that Hydra showing up and targeting her first was not good. Still Olive stayed quiet and eyed him carefully. If he had something important to say, she expected him to go ahead and say it without being prompted. Still, his silence continued, even after she quirked an eyebrow high. “Why me?” Olive found herself asking.

“We’re not exactly sure why yet,” Tony finally said with a sigh.

His very distinct _yet_ repeated in Olive’s head several times over. He shoved it in there on purpose. “I’m a broken human being who can’t fight back. There’s not much that can be done with me outside of _Hey! Let’s threaten this little shit to her friends back home!_ And eventually someone just gives up, and I’m gone,” she grumbled and blew a raspberry over her shoulder as if it would remove the bitter taste in her mouth.

If this new team she was on gave up on her, it would be nothing new. Her father had practically left her for dead with one of the women he divorced, or at least tried to even though it failed. At that time she never even thought of the possibility of being dependent on a wheelchair. Her father was a spine surgeon, a very successful one, who constantly assured her she was fine. He would tell her the constant pain was probably just normal for her, that was how her body worked.

Olive clicked her tongue at the back of her front teeth twice, calling Zelda into her lap. “Sorry, Tony… It’s been a long day. I think I should just go to bed,” she told him, before spinning the chair and heading for the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everything involving Olive by me is written for my benefit. But that doesn't mean I don't want you to enjoy it too. I don't think the next chapter is very long.


	3. Sponge Bath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony tries yet again to convince Olive she is Avenger material. When that fails food proves a good distraction.

Early morning came and went, and with it morning and noon passed too. Two came around and finally Bean had headbutted Olive to the point of no return. Their food bowl was not empty yet, but the young woman refilled the dish and went off to replace the water as well. Often times, her cats were the only reason she ever got out of bed.

Most of her work could be done on her laptop from the comfort of her covers, though that also required her to at least sit up. Across the room, on her dresser, her phones had gone off several times. The notification flashes danced on the walls and the ceiling, passive-aggressively reminding Olive that people wanted to talk to her. 

She limped across the flat, leaning into things on her way as she hobbled along. The hole in her calf was nothing compared to her sore, bruised knees. Olive wanted to take a shower, but the pain in her knees was too great, and because of the hole in her leg she could not take a bath. Nothing sounded all that great, and she figured that was due in part to depression setting it.

Still, she knew she had to clean up, so she took her red Flyer wagon and brought some of her soaps and towels into the kitchen so she could clean up in the big sink. Olive took the remote and turned on the 72 inch flat screen Tony gave her after he decided he wanted a different one.

The news flashed events from the night before. It was hard to hear over the running water, so Olive turned the sound up and turned on subtitles. It was one of those ADHD things, where her ears would focus on whatever sound was closest.

She put on boxer shorts and a sports bra before returning to the sink at her hobbled pace of Going Nowhere Fast. Her face flashed on the television screen a little longer than Olive was comfortable with, almost like one of the newscasters made a connection. Then words flashed to follow what was being reported, giving her credit for distracting the assailants from their escaping hostages.

“At least there’s that saving grace,” she grumbled to herself as she dipped her feet into the steaming water that sat in her kitchen sink. 

There was a knock on her door. Olive hardly heard it, but she did not feel like having company, so she failed to respond. The door opened anyway, which did not surprise Olive at all. With Tony being the way he was, she half expected him to have come in hours ago to search her flat and make sure she was still alive.

Olive had never been at risk of suicide, but maybe Tony wanted to be extra careful.

She dipped her hands into the water, curling up. “What?” Olive asked her new guest. Then turned at the waist to look in the direction of the door. Without her glasses it was a little hard to see the facial features of her new guest, but she assumed it was Rhodey.

“Sorry, I didn’t really introduce myself before,” he said, walking further into the apartment as Tony followed in behind him. “I’m James Rhodes. You can call me Rhodey.”

Before she could respond, Tony spoke up, “Hey, I didn’t know you had a tattoo, that’s cool.”

“Uh, thanks,” Olive replied, turning her attention back to the news. “I didn’t really introduce myself either, so it’s not like you’re the only one at fault,” she told Rhodey. “I’m Olive. Oliver works too, I like that name,” Olive added, her eyes fastened to the screen across the room.

Tony went ahead and made himself at home, like he always did, by plopping down on the couch closer to the television screen. “This is really loud, are you deaf?” Tony asked.

“A lil bit, yeah, I’ve been meaning to get better at sign language, but ADHD likes to kick my ass,” Olive informed him, knowing he was not trying to cause problems. 

Rhodey sat down at the island, which also hosted the sink that Olive was soaking in. “Sorry we couldn’t give you much of a heads up yesterday,” he told her, taking the situation much more seriously than his billionaire counterpart. “You found out almost as soon as we did.”

Olive hit the mute button on the remote so she could hear everyone a little better. The news had subtitles for a reason, but reading it and listening to Rhodey would be a little difficult. Fortunately, the news would play on repeat for a while. The man glanced back at the television to see that it was still on.

“No one knows everything all the time,” Olive replied, reminding herself of one of those shitposting generators online. In a way the words were a little cryptic too. It reminded her of one of her friends who had an obsession with vague, but detailed words. 

He chuckled. “Yeah, I guess you’re right about that.”

As Olive was distracted by the television, only slightly paying attention to what was being said around her, Rhodey noticed all the cuts and scrapes and bruises on her body. Most of them, he heard, were from the glass door shattering. Then his eyes fell on the bandages on her calf parallel to one another. “With the way you barreled down that hallway, I didn’t think you got shot,” he said, nodding his head at the gauze tapped in place.

“I didn’t know till I sat down and waited for someone to get me,” Olive answered. Her hand unconsciously traveled down to finger over the medical tape. “I can’t really feel it with my knees so banged up,” she added. “Hey, uh, could you -could you grab my stuff out of the wagon for me? I don’t wanna slip or whatever and I forgot to grab it.”

Rhodey nodded and moved the whole wagon onto the counter instead of bothering with the stuff piece by piece. “Sponge bath?” He asked. 

Olive nodded this time as she drowned a few wash clothes in the water. “I always call ‘em half-baths,” she told him quietly. Her eyes were no longer trained on the television screen and favored following her hands instead.

When she was a kid, she and her brother were in gymnastics together. The two would get rug burn on the blue bounce floor during stretches. Their hands would blister from practicing on the double bars. On the occasion, they would skin a knee or both while jumping on the trampoline. Then they would go home and their mom would fill the sink with water and wash off with wash clothes. She called them half baths.

Olive felt tears run over the scabs on her face. She blinked the water from her eyes before pulling a washcloth from the wink. She wrung the cloth tight till it was only slightly damp and pressed it against her face. “This is dumb,” Olive thought to herself.

Eventually, she scrubbed herself clean and dried off with one of her towels. Her skin was still damp though, so Olive would have to wait to redress her wound. “So why did you need a selfie last night?” Olive asked. Before the whole sentence left her mouth she realized exactly how dirty it sounded. But she had no intent of having a relationship like that, much less with Tony Stark of all people.

Tony pulled himself over the back of the couch and entered the kitchen area. “I had to make sure everyone knew what you looked like,” he said. “Didn’t think anyone would shoot you, but you’re already in enough pain to black out from-” Tony stopped himself.

“If you piss me off with what you have to say I’ll let you know,” Olive grumbled. “Keep talking.”

“-some take down techniques,” he finished.

The youngest person in the room rolled her eyes as she entered her bedroom, leaving the two men in her kitchen so she could throw on some day clothes and look halfway presentable. She came out in a pair of men’s cargo pants and one of her standard sleeveless shirts that came down from her neck. She carted her wheelchair in front of her and sighed. “Usually I just give up and scream bloody murder to be completely honest,” Olive told him. “Granted, I know everyone isn’t my brother and won’t buy it, but it’s always worth a shot.”

“So,” Tony finally said. It must have taken him the past hour to work up enough nerves to say that much. “Have you thought about joining the team?”

Olive spun the wheelchair so she could sit in it. Being at home meant she could add however many pillows under her rump until she felt comfortable. The extra cushion was nice. “I don’t exactly see how I would be a good addition. And please, please don’t tell me you could just make another suit. I don’t have the mental stability to be strapped into a mobile tank with enough firepower to take out a small town.”

“You can be disabled and still do good,” said Tony, using his best stern parent voice.

“Look, Tony, I would have been a fucking Marine, but my head is BROKEN!” Olive raised her voice doing her best not to shout at him. “There’s a reason they don’t give people like me weapons!”

He watched as Olive actively threw talking about Clint Barton and his hearing impairment out the window. “Olive-”

“What?” She snapped. Tears were in her eyes again and her face was red.

Tony stole a glance back at Rhodey who shook his head. Unlike his more patriotic counterpart, Tony did not consider the subject to be a dead horse with no point in beating. But he did not want to try to push his luck any further. “You hungry?”

“Yeah, I guess so,” replied Olive weakly as she ran her fingers over her arm. Picking at the scabs was tempting.

“We’re gonna grab some grub with Steve and Sam if you want to come along,” Rhodey offered, seeing where Tony was going with the topic of food. It was no secret after her late night ramblings last night that she would do just about anything for a good meal.

Olive could hear her brain chanting grub over and over again until she finally caved. “Yeah… Let me get a sweater or something to cover up all this mess,” she decided with a sigh as she motioned her hands over all the scabs and scrapes over her arms. The crowd in her head cheered at the victory and the promise of food.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As fate and my idiot head would have it, there are four chapters not three. I'm really sorry about that. I won't be surprised if I end up standing corrected by my own work again and having five chapters. Oh well, that's for future me to figure out.


	4. Food Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Olive gets to know everyone a little better over food at a burger joint.

They met Sam and Steve at a hole-in-the-wall kind of burger joint with outdoor seating. It was early spring, but the weather was nice enough, if only a bit breezy. It made Oliver happy that he decided to wear more than just a top and a pair of pants. Once they were seated, he took off his ball cap and set it in his lap, a habit his grandma was sure to form when he visited.

Oliver never tried to change his voice when his pronouns changed. The only thing he bothered changing was his name, if only slightly, and even if people called him Olive instead of Oliver, he was fine with it. Even when he felt more feminine, he usually wore boyish clothing, because it fit better and felt better than most women’s clothing. Not to mention, men’s clothes were made to last and were less likely to get torn up in the washing machine after one use.

He was happy, because Rhodey and Tony seemed to be perfectly fine with swapping out she and her for he and him and using Oliver instead of Olive. His family usually only used she and Olive, so the contrast was welcome. 

Steve and Rhodey sat on either side of Oliver. He was not quite sure if they were trying to act as a buffer between himself and Tony, not that it was necessary. The change in seating was nice after only seeing Tony for the past week and then some. 

“You said you something about your grandpa last night,” Steve started, figuring it was one of the better places to start a conversation with someone he hardly knew.

Oliver looked up from his hands to face the icon. “Yeah, I mean, he’s my great-grandpa. But yeah, I decided to write him a letter instead of call him,” he informed him. “You know, he’s a little older than you. I mean, he’s aged a bit worse than you, but… Sorry, that was uncalled for,” Oliver muttered, returning his gaze to his hands.

“I can handle a joke or two,” Steve assured the youngest at the table.

Everyone took a moment to order, then returned to their conversations.

“He was a bomber pilot during the war, then entered politics and the government. Served as a Congressman for a long while,” Oliver said with a weak smile. “Most of my family doesn’t talk to me, but he doesn’t care. I’m a bit too distant for him to worry about the politics of the family, I guess?”

Steve seemed to be at a loss for words. Finally he sniffled a little. His glance fell to his hands as well before returning to Oliver. “It’s good you still talk to him,” he replied after clearing his throat. 

“Do you prefer written letters?” Oliver asked out of nowhere.

“Are you going to make a telegram joke?” Steve chuckled.

Oliver giggled but shook his head. “No, I was just wondering. I guess I kind of figured you maybe had a pen pal or something?”

“I text if that counts for anything,” he said. As if to prove himself, the blond pulled out a cellphone and wiggled it around in his hand for Oliver to see. “I heard you live in the tower now. Tony’s been trying to set up most of us with a room,” Steve said.

Oliver nodded in response. “Yeah, he let me take my cats along too!” He exclaimed with a grin. He had not noticed anyone bring their drinks around, but his Dr. Pepper sat in front of him as well as a glass of water. “So do you have a room set up too?” He wondered.

“Yeah,” answered Steve, “it’s not like my home before…”

Oliver sighed, but nodded. He knew that feeling of homesickness, though he figured his would never match Steve’s. “I can see that,” Oliver said awkwardly at a loss of what else to say. He was careful not to overshadow Steve, but part of him felt he was being too careful. Surely, if the human popsicle knew what Oliver had been through that brought him to Stark Industries of all places, Steve might find he related to people more than he thought.

Then again, times had not really changed as much as history books implied. Vaccinations and better schooling could only do so much when it came to changing society as a whole.

“Are you alright after what happened last night?” Steve asked.

It was not that Oliver had not realized that Steve was Captain America before, but his question made it all click suddenly. He was not just some random guy from the street that Tony just happened to know. He was a national, patriotic figure too. In fact, he was stuck in the ocean for far longer than anyone wanted to admit. 

Before responding aloud, Oliver pulled the cuffs of his pants above his knees, revealing heavy bruises. “I’m a little dinged up, but I’ve got chronic pain so it’s not really anything new,” he assured Steve. It hurt almost unbearably. But he did not want anyone fussing over him like a mother hen. He offered a smile. “I’m fine, really.”

“Is that a bullet hole?” Steve said, leaning out of his chair to get a better look at Oliver’s leg. “I was wondering where all that blood in the hallway came from last night…”

“I’m fine!” Oliver assured him again, sounding more skittish this time. “It’s fine. It’s nothing, really!”

Steve could not push the subject further though, because their food came out on hot plates.

Oliver was happily humming and wiggling around in his wheelchair, causing the others at the table to simply watch and grin. “I love food so much,” Oliver said between bites. He was doing his best not to talk with his mouth full, but food so good needed credit for being so wonderful and delicious. “Do you ever just eat and think, ‘God is real’? Cus I do a lot!”

“I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself,” Tony said between fries.

He knew the rest of the table was amused by his behavior, but there was nothing he could do about it. Oliver was too busy enjoying himself anyway. So he was not going to stop any time soon. The burger was too good and so were the fries. Before he knew it, he ate most of the contents of the plate and downed both his soda pop and his water.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to update this story last week, but I've been keeping myself on a strict schedule of only updating and posting on Mondays. Sorry for the wait!

**Author's Note:**

> No real point in writing this other than character study in bursts


End file.
